It was an idea that Merrick did not entertain for a moment. If one person was going to survive this, it was his mother. The geist was upon them. He shoved Japhne, something that as a good son he would have never have done until this desperate moment. She stumbled and fell against the wall, while Merrick stood alone between her and the creature.
“Go!” he bellowed, pulling his sword, though it was a totally pointless gesture. The geist loomed out of the darkness, or maybe more precisely gathered itself from within the darkness, because he finally recognized it: a ghast. The dense knot of shades was held together by cantrips and weirstonea snarling, snapping creature composed of twenty or so tormented human souls and their lost hopes.
Racked with so much pain, a ghast was a maw of destruction that would enter a human body and pull it apart from inside, creating another shade to add to its conglomeration. They had created more pain and destruction than any other kind of geist and had been the priority for the Order of the Eye and the Fist when they had made landfall on Arkaym with the Emperor years before.
Merrick remained calm, though he knew the odds; he was a Sensitive adrift without his Active and had nothing to offer up except his body.
Flicking around, he screamed at Japhne, who had not gone much farther than he had shoved her. “Mother! Save yourself, save the child!” The howl came out raw, and he knew it would be the last thing he said.
She clutched the rock wall with spread fingers, tears streaming down her face and unable to chose a path. They would all die here then in this lonely corridor, not even knowing where they were.
Merrick turned and became Active. No Deacon except the Arch Abbot ever held both the Gauntlets and the Strop, but every one of them had the seed of both specialities in them. Merrick did not have the Gauntlets that would provide protection from the backlash of the runes, and he didn’t have the training to control them, but at this moment he was out of all other options. The one thing he did have was knowledge.
In his mind’s eye he drew Pyet, the cleansing flame. The long, looping line of the rune, bisected by the horizontal straight line leapt into existence, carving itself into the flesh of his palm.
The fire cut to his core. Never having done it, Merrick nevertheless imagined it felt the same as shoving his hand into a burning hearth. But he couldn’t afford the time and energy to scream. If he lost control of the rune now, they would all be consumed by it. Trained to see through pain, he managed to hold out his hands.
Red fire coursed from the rune, flowing over his hands—thankfully not melting his flesh yet—and enveloped the ghast as it gathered itself to leap from the shadows.
The conflagration filled the tunnel, and Merrick wondered, even as the pain chewed at his concentration, how he had managed such a display. His Active side was latent only, and he had at best been hoping for a mere distraction so that his mother could escape.
The smell of charred brick and dirt filled his nostrils, even as the power filled him. It was heady and terrifying. The Active talent heightened every sense, until he was choking, sobbing, overwhelmed—yet still Merrick held on.
Pyet was more than a physical flame. It had to be to have any effect on a geist. As the intense flame poured from the mark on Merrick’s hand, the ghast writhed.
Its screams were filled with the pain of dozens of souls trapped and feeling death again. But it was a little pain compared to the agony of holding the rune. Merrick knew it was burning far too brightly and far too long. The ghast was gone, a candle held in a blast furnace, but the Deacon could not stop the destruction gushing out of him.
Now the smell was that of his own mortal form; the hairs on his arm burst alight, and he could feel real physical flames reaching out to consume skin and flesh.
He had saved his mother and unborn brother, but now it was he who would be the candle. Merrick prepared himself to be taken, until the moment Japhne laid cool hands on him. He jerkby way, trying to shake her loose, but she was surprisingly strong. Forcing her fingers around his wrists, she pulled him to her, and Pyet and the flames were suddenly gone.
Merrick stood there for a long moment, feeling his mother’s arms now go around him. She was soft and cool comfort. And he was alive.
When the Deacon pulled back, she still held on to his hands, cradling them in her own. He looked down, fearing what he would see. They were not blackened lumps as he might have guessed, but they were bright red and blistered. It was going to be painful, but he might keep his hands.
“How did you—” he began.
Japhne smiled, leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “The Ancient blood flows in your veins—but not from your father’s family.”
“The Ehtia,” he whispered in return, wondering how much of the wild talent that his Order was so afraid of came from them. “So you—”
“It is a little talent.” His mother stroked his hair back from his face. “I can calm magic from time to time. It turned out to be a very useful skill when I fell in love with Onika.”
Despite the situation, Merrick blushed—he had wondered if the Prince kept his mask on in private—but if Japhne was unaffected, then it all made sense. He quickly changed the topic of conversation, which was unseemly and awkward for him as both a son and as a Deacon.
“Come on.” He put his arm around his mother. “We have to get you back to the palace, and then I must try to catch up with Sorcha and Onika. They have gone to stop the goddess Hatipai gaining a body in this world. I fear I know how I was able to channel an Active rune.”
Holding each other up, they made it back to the junction with the pipe under the palace. Now, with the darkness lifted, Merrick could make out a circle of weirstones embedded in the brickwork—it was a masterfully done job.
“But your hands,” his mother murmured as they stepped out of one pipe and back into Chioma.
Once there, Merrick could feel the Bond singing in his head. The buzz was not a comforting noise. Somewhere not far off, he feared he had left his partner significantly diminished. He glanced down at his palms. “I’ll bind them. Perhaps if I take the fastest horse, I can still catch them.”
Japhne frowned, undoubtedly thinking of her own lover in danger. “What use can you be, my son? Surely what is done is already done?”
“Not where Sorcha is concerned, Mother.”
“Then go to the dirigible station.” Now she was tugging him along. “There are two vessels in port, and if they burn weirstones, you may just get there in time.”
Merrick’s heart welled with admiration and love for Japhne. He had saved her, and then she had saved him. The young Deacon could only hope that he would get to his partner in time to bring her the same hope.
TWENTY-NINE
Prodigal Son
Sorcha woke in a cradle of sand. It had blown over her, cushioned her, but was now trying to swallow her. She jerked erect, the broken swing tangled on top of her, her mouth dry and her pulse racing. Turning her head to the left, she saw the still-smoldering remains of the Winter Falcon spread over the dunes.
The brave Chiomese and the Imperial sailors had died together because of Hatipai—Sorcha had no doubt of that. It was up to her to stop the false goddess from taking any more victims.
After she pushed herself free of the remains of the swing, she dragged herself to her feet and examined her body carefully. She felt as though she’d been given a damn good beating, and even without pulling aside her clothes, Sorcha could tell there would be plenty of bruises. Though she had no way of knowing how far she’d fallen, nothing felt broken. Next she tried to orient herself under the blazing sun.
“It’s over there.” Onika’s voice at her back made her jump like a green Initiate. The Prince of Chioma could have been a statue revealed by blowing sand—he certainly didn’t look as though he had fallen any great distance either. He looked no more ruffled than if he’d been standing in his own Court.